A Dreaded Morning
by TheDragonPhylakas
Summary: At the break of dawn, all creatures rise to go on about their usual routine with friends and loved ones. The same applies to Spyro, hero of the Realms. Although, this morning holds nothing but empty promises for him. Oneshot.


**Good day to all! Here is another oneshot focused on your favorite purple dragon, with a slightly darker tone… Enjoy!**

A lifeless breeze drifted in with the cold morning air through the nearby opened window. Its vivid dance contradicted with the doleful artificial world from which it seeped in, prickling the scales of the sleeping purple dragon. He shivered in his bed, hoping his body would fight off the chill, but to no avail, his scales still crawled. His paw reached out in a last-ditch effort, seeking any source of warmth.

The phantoms in his mind mistook the crisp sheets for velvety scales, a warm company that soothed his dreamy conscience.

Spyro slowly opened his eyes, finding he had awoken to an eerily desolate bedroom, typical for him judging by his indifferent stare. His nonchalant gaze scanned the dimly lit bedroom, a spacious grandiose area designed for a couple, he forced a weak smile to his twisted expression, it was not enough to get his spirits going.

There was that familiar feminine scent on the sheets, he didn't remember the last time they were changed, why would they be?

It was like any other day, he'd wake up next to the sight of a slender black dragoness, all the signs of her presence were still there, imprinted all over the room, on the bed and on him. It brought hope to him that this was like any other day.

However, he doubted there was any force in the world that would fill the void sucking up all the hope.

He gingerly lifted his head off the soft cushion, finding its surface faintly darkened with tears shed from the previous night. It took a good lot of crying and drowning his sorrows in grief to indulge in the much-needed sleep. Yet, rest felt more like a curse than a blessing.

Though his dreams were plagued by vivid, recollections of precious times, they shared together.

Cynder's beautiful face enriched with her gorgeous smile, made his heart flutter, sending a rush of blood throughout his body. The many fond memories were a remembrance that life had been joyful and straightforward, but it wasn't the pleasant moments with his beloved mate that tore him in two.

The real torture was the constant reminder that he'd never get to see her again.

Just the mere thought was powerful enough to wreak havoc with his emotions, but he held himself together long enough to roll off his bed and onto his feet. The wooden floors beneath the pads of his paws were cold to the touch, chilled by the air that pelted Spyro in the face. The sky was shrouded in a layer of thick, grey clouds, adding to the sorrow that today was going to be another emotional day.

With a saddened sigh, Spyro closed the window, blocking the wind and allowing himself to relish in the warmth of the still air. He wiped a paw under his baggy eyelids, finding them encrusted with nasty gunk consisting of salt and grime. It sickened him to be in such a state, though he couldn't help but realize that there was no one else left to impress with his little imperfections.

At least for the most part.

Turning away from the window, Spyro sluggishly moved to a corner of the large room, dragging his tail behind him with no regards to the rug he padded over. He stumbled upon a wooden basket covered with a red silk cloth, obscuring the contents held within, a shaky breath falling from his muzzle as he forced himself to turn away. He dejectedly discarded the basket from his thoughts, not having the mental fortitude to peek inside.

Instead, he carried himself into a washroom, hunching over a pool of crystal clear water. Staring at his own reflection, Spyro could make out the lines of grime that plastered his face, quietly disgusted at himself. He cupped a paw and proceeded to clean his face, the water did wonders to his unkempt scales, but nothing to rejuvenate his soul.

He resumed in a staring contest with his indifferent, desensitized reflection, the twitches on the edge of his muzzle were involuntary, almost as if the copy of him in the mirror was lifelike. It certainly looked more pristine and genuine than the real counterpart, it was mocking him.

He took the judgmental glare with a heavy sigh, swaying a paw in annoyance. If all other alternatives fail, insanity was his final escape.

The longing desire to bring his paw forward and strike the mirror had passed, realizing the action would prove ineffective in his grief. The purple drake took a deep breath, wiping his muzzle with a washcloth, the dreaded silence was killing him, as he waited for the tiniest hint to whisper to him, that this was not over yet. He eavesdropped fixed stance, tense muscles. It only took a second for him to realize that it was indeed over, and there was no returning to his former self.

The atmosphere was choking, it grew hot as if a fire dragon was gathering up energy next to him. While isolation felt like a blessing before, it was nothing more than torture now, the drake required a release.

Swallowing the lump that sat heavily at the back of his throat, Spyro exited the washroom and walked through the bedroom, vaguely casting a glance at the basket nestled in the corner. A shallow grumble developed within his chest, forcing him to bite back a snarl as he pushed through the bedroom door, slamming it shut behind him. He paid no mind to the rest of the living space, coming to a halt at the entrance of his home.

The outside world hadn't seen any sign from the purple savior since his isolation nearly five days prior. Of course, he was still called a savior by the dense population, an ironic title, seeing as he couldn't save the one thing he desired most.

Two amethyst orbs peeked from behind the creaking door, squinting in retaliation to the invasive blinding sun rays. The humid climate made him tingle, nature was unwelcoming of him, he checked for signs of familiarity in the neighborhood, it all felt so foreign and distant, like a place he didn't belong to anymore.

Spyro allowed the door to swing open freely while he stood in its frame, barely sticking his head out into the shining sun that cascaded its warmth against his scales. There were a few citizens in the streets, none of which noticed his gaze as they passed by his home. The purple dragon sighed quietly to himself, shaking his head, trying to rid his mind of the saddened thoughts, only to find they had a constricting grip on him.

As his head settled, the drake's eyes began to wander, catching the quick glance of a passerby before they snapped their heads forward. He gulped distressfully, finding a few of the people carried a distasteful glare in their eyes, shaking their heads at him before returning to their own business. Spyro knew where their minds were with him and had to choke back the disgust from his tongue. But the hate spread like infectious cancer.

"Even after four years they still can't forgive and forget the things she did," Spyro muttered sadly, sucking on his lips. "Yet they still mockingly stare at me while I continue to grieve."

He brushed away their pettiness, allowing himself to revel in his sorrow without the interference of unwanted attention. His paws simply started walking with little to no effort, a destination set in his mind and a hole pierced in his heart. The drake's strong legs felt tender and sore, pulsating a dull pain with each step he took; a possible factor of him barely being on his feet for a couple of days.

The once prideful dragon dragged himself through the streets that became increasingly more crowded as the minutes ticked by, finding more pairs of eyes staring into his hide with mixed emotions. His scales felt hot as a lane parted in front of him, not a single citizen dared to be in his way both out of respect and fear. But there were the occasional thugs that took a dangerous gamble of standing in his way. The last individual to do that got close to him was a few heartbeats away from striking Spyro, only to be carried off by a pair of guards.

Since then, the brave and adventurous ones stood off to the side, scowling their aggressive disposition, and silently mocking him when he walked by. Occasionally, someone would speak loud enough to catch Spyro's attention, to which he'd respond with barred fangs if his anger had a strong rip on his emotions. Though he typically just ignored them, taking a morally higher ground, never allowing himself to stoop down to their level of pettiness.

The lane he took eventually opened up into a vast, central hub. A large, draconic fountain rested in the middle of it, spewing a stream of water into the air before crashing down into tiered pools. He stopped in his tracks to take in his surroundings, finding that most people turned their backs on him or stared into his gaze as a sort of challenge. He bowed his head, forcing himself to look away from them, feeling their slight hostility wash over him like a monstrous tidal wave.

He swallowed heavily, averting the pupils of those around him as he walked across the hub and down a narrow side street. Spyro exhaled profoundly as he entered, sucking in a massive amount of air. Despite the fire element coursing through his veins, he felt like he had just waded through a lazy river of liquid, hot magma. He figured the best way to arrive at his destination without the unwanted prying eyes of disgruntled citizens would be to stick to the back streets and alleyways.

Yet, the loneliness could not live without Spyro, and the alleys and side streets brought him right back to it, seeping into his thoughts and poking at his already fragile emotions.

Spyro took each stride with effort, feeling like paws were reaching out from the ground forcefully trying to drag him down into the depths below. He resisted against their might, struggling to pull away as grief continued to constrict him like a massive serpent. But even though it was trying to prove to be overwhelming, the purple drake powered through it, giving him a momentary window of peace. He'd dwell in this surge of tranquil energy for as long as it stayed with him.

Yet it didn't bring him physically closer to his destination, though he quickly decided to call upon his natural flying ability to carry him there.

Opening his wings, Spyro felt the strain of the cartilage in his back as walking everywhere within the city had become an everyday activity. It had probably been over a week or two since he last untucked his leathery joints. In fact, he felt the tension ease as he rolled his shoulders and gave a few test flaps; they were still capable of bringing him into the sky but weren't as strong as they used to be. And with a deep, concentrated breath, Spyro launched himself into the air, catching the wind under his wings and gaining altitude with each flap; however, he found his wing muscles a tad unsynchronized as he created a big gap between himself and the ground, climbing high into the cloud cover.

A fall from this height could quickly kill him if he weren't careful enough. Though he couldn't help but let out a contentful exhale of air. The air was cleaner and fuller to him, not containing even the slightest bit of musty odors or the stench of industrialization. Up here, the world was still wild and untamed, capable of great destruction and tragedy, but it carried with it an absolute beauty that Spyro always admired. He felt free from the life that he lived, a life of death and sorrow, that only continued to haunt him in a way despite all his good deeds and successes.

In the face of death he'd heartily push on, a sharp blade or uneven odds did little to put him off. He did gain a few abilities along the way that made his current existence more harrowing. He could smell the death, the iron scent that served as a grim reminder of loss, even long after the grief and tears subsided.

As he approached his destination, it became clear that the stench would only get stronger. The irony was great with this one. He who never feared death was hesitant to step in its home.

Right around the corner, from which he peeked to make sure no one was following him, the long stretch of green expanded, posing as a home to many marble plaques that marked graves. They were overshadowed by well-kept cypresses, the tree that symbolizes death. Why the designers of this place decided to make it eerier than it should be was beyond him.

It was temporary displeasure to be here, yet it was still the only place he felt attached to, more so than his bland residence. It wasn't like he had anywhere better to be, he had stepped down from Warfang's politics and discarded his titles long ago, casting away his former glorious self for a more simple, planted life.

This place was exactly where he belonged, the thought would cross his mind, and he would slap himself mentally for such disrespect to the living. The more he witnessed the serenity of this place, he figured the living and their sorrows didn't matter here, this place wasn't made with them in mind.

The specific erected grave he was after wasn't anywhere near the gate, or in the grandiose center, that spot was occupied by his mentor. He passed by briefly and never even stopped to pay his respects. He couldn't even remember how long it had been since he talked to his old friend or any friend for that matter.

He didn't want to overburden Ignitus's rest with his mopping.

And at last, after a painstakingly lengthy trip, he reached the far edges of the graveyard. Few graves littered the burst soil here and there, a desolate unkempt patch of dirt, inaccessible to most and forgotten. The perfect spot to hide away a person that is meant to be dismissed from memory.

Yet, that was the only spot in the world he still cared to visit. As he neared an uneven slope, his claws dug in the dirt and his eyes immediately locked with the grave he'd been looking for at the bottom. It was a pitiful sight. A cracked plaque stood tilted and poorly dug in the soil as if it were shaming the dead it represented.

He practically slid down and got all brown on his scales. The Warfangians shouted at him to be grateful this grave even existed, and he resented them all, going as far as making a public scene. He still regretted that day, one that would likely find a way to come back and bite him when his back was turned.

With mechanical accuracy, his paw found exactly the little scratched patch of soil above the person occupying the grave and clawed at it like he had so many other times. He'd never overdo it so as not to get carried away and dig up the grave.

As for the plaque, he could only assume it was vandals who drove it to such a poor state. He'd gladly run his claws through their stomachs if he found them. Not much was said on it, unmarked graves were not a worthy resting place for an honorary hero. It's not like his opinion mattered in front of an enthusiastic vengeful crowd.

No one would know who the hero lying beneath this surface was, especially when he would follow suit. It was maddening to think about the treachery Warfang committed against its own saviors.

Alas, he cared naught about revenge anymore, just dwelling on what little he had left. Cynder wouldn't want him to spend a lifetime plotting and turning to the dark side. He chose to live with the humiliation and withdraw. To turn down that path would be a far worse existence than the one he sadly was forced to live.

And without Cynder by his side to make him realize the greater things in life were within his reach, he'd be lost in a sea of sorrow and desperation for the rest of his days.

With a bow, he showed his respect, his head lowered enough to hide his contorted features and allow him to plant a brief kiss on the tasteless rock. He remained firmly static for five minutes, with his forehead pressed against the unnamed grave.

There were writings on the stone surprisingly, roughly carved and barely coherent. Spyro ditched the idea of naming Cynder's resting place a year ago when Warfang guards caught him in the act and erased the writings. Undying love or not, the law stated that unmarked graves remain unmarked.

They could have turned a blind eye on it, he offered bribes from his stash. They simply didn't care for his pleas though, anything to keep Cynder out of the picture.

He stifled a few sobs as he was reminded of another failure, opting to stand back on his haunches to avoid staining the plaque with tears. He chanted a few prayers and other kind words under his shaky breath, it was the closest thing to real interaction with his mate. His guilt-tripped conscience blamed him of course for all of it. The hate she received, the missed chances at redemption, even her death over which he had no control. He still took it all as his own fault.

The neglected child at home. Would that be his fault too?

He didn't want to disappoint her, but it was all he had to be reminded of the good times.

After an intimate conversation with himself, during which many tears were said, he found some courage to utter a proper sentence, directed at the grave.

"We've had this talk many times since I started coming here… Who's to blame for all this misery? I remember when I lost myself after Ignitus's passing, yours was no different. This time no one was there to stop me, so I just… hid. I believed the many things they said about us, but never that we were heroes, there's no such thing." He shifted uneasily and gulped before continuing.

"We were together, through thick and thin, and they could see that, they hated us for being so different, borderline impossible to coexist, yet we loved each other, no… We still love each other, I know you do too. And now that I'm forced to go on without you, I feel like I deserve it, I didn't try enough to save you from the rage of the crowd or from death itself. Maybe if I had let you go that day in Convexity, you'd have known less sorrow, and I wouldn't have made it halfway through my journey. Alas, I hope you're not dwelling on that anymore. You went out, but not without leaving something good behind you."

He couldn't be bothered to hold his composure anymore and let his eyes burst like teary dams. His solid form slumped on the ground, and he choked, unable to go on.

"How many times do I have to tell you I wanna see you in the flesh one more time! Just a glimpse, if the Ancestors' will allow it. Seeing you in my dreams only brings back the horror of watching you draw your last breath and closing your eyes forever. A part of me died with you, and I don't think I can ever get that back."

Then his mind drifted back to that lonely basket resting in the corner of his living space. The only thing that Cynder left to Spyro before she passed away just so happened to be something he didn't want to take responsibility for. He closed his eyes in an attempt to block it out but found his thoughts wouldn't allow it, as if they were trying to tell him something important.

"I don't know what to do with our little one, Cynder," Spyro mumbled, wiping his face. "Every time I look at the egg, I immediately see you, and I can't bring myself to even touch it, let alone even return back to society. And without you here, I feel like such an outcast. I just don't want the child to inherit our troubles. If I leave it to rot though, it'll be like letting you die… again. I'll never forgive myself if I go away fully aware that more lives were lost."

His dejected sigh resonated through the lifeless wasteland of a resting place, he was genuinely alone this time. There was always someone by his side, someone to keep him sane, even the smallest of exchanges like sharing a kiss with Cynder or a tease with his brother meant the world to him.

Now he had none of that, just a mind devoid of emotions and stuffed with memories to carry like a burden.

What kind of parental example would he make?

These worries plagued him the longer he stared at the gravestone, it was a manifestation of all his fears.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to turn back and forget, nothing of real value was waiting for him in the land of the living. The fact that the purple dragon, destined to save and bring the world to prosperity, was followed by death was an oxymoron situation.

He never asked himself what would Cynder do in his place, if she would move on or fall in despair. He hated to admit, but it would probably be the first one. Her maternal instincts would prevail over her grief. Alas, he was not that strong.

Before turning his head back, he leaned in and kissed the stone one last time. He always treated these visits as if they were his last, always promising himself to never return to this solemn patch of dirt. Even in his mature state, he was still naive enough to accept his own lies.

The journey back home was a mix of angst and impatience. Spyro couldn't decide whether the fresh air outside, along with the hateful stares it brought at him was worse than the choking atmosphere in his home. Every few minutes, he would stop to catch his breath, googly eyes tearing up and swelling. If any passers-byes showed empathy to him, it was because it was rumored he had fallen ill. The spark in his amethyst eyes was a distant memory, irises were mere shadows of their former vividness.

The frequent stops did little to lengthen the time it took for him to return, it flew by like a swallow migrating during winter. The weather had shifted to a gloomy mood, puffy dark clouds on the edge of bursting with heavy rainfall. The first booming thunder signaled this change.

"Thank you, ominously timed thunder…" He joked under his breath, pushing the front door with a forced smile that broke down into a clenched expression of disgust.

Everything was exactly the way he had left it. After all, it had only been a few hours of stalling outside to avoid this cage.

Idly stepping in, his paw immediately crumpled a piece of paper at his doorstep, he withdrew it in surprise and hunched over it. Somebody had left a letter while he was gone, he threw his head outside again and scanned the neighborhood for anyone watching him. Paranoia did this to a dragon.

Upon finding nothing out of order, he broke the seal of the letter and dragged himself to the couch, shooting a disappointing gaze at his obscured offspring.

His heart sank as he laid eyes on the first few words, aware of the letter's purpose.

His internal voice read out the letter in a disheartened, faltering manner:

_"Respected Savior of the Realms Spyro,_

_This letter is sent to you to ease your pain during this time of grievance. The Council gives you its condolences for your loss. We are aware that not enough can ever be done to repay you for your selfless service. _

_However, recent reports from civilians close to you have stated occurrences of mental outbreaks and even direct assault at approaching citizens. We came to a unanimous agreement that the continuation of your bloodline is key to preserving our draconic heritage. You have been deemed incapable by the social services of the city to fulfill your parental duties, thus putting the unborn hatchling at risk. _

_You must understand that we are doing this for your own good, as a warrant has been signed and guards will be at your residence tomorrow at the break of dawn to deliver your egg to a safe family environment. As an instrument of Warfang's order, you must oblige and sign a few legal documents, stating your understanding and giving up full guardianship of the egg. Interfering with the process and threatening the egg's life or the guards' will be met with force. _

_Best regards,_

_Council of Warfang"_

If his heart could talk, it would be screaming in agony, the shock was unimaginable. How much more shame would they make him go through? Exhausted, he let go of the letter that hovered to a far off corner discarded and buried his head between his forepaws.

He had gone from losing the respect of his fellow peers to being treated like a common crook. His fang was gnawing idly at his lip to the point it popped, and the blood rushed to his tongue, he had grown desensitized to the metallic taste.

Inching closer to the innocent basket, he had the look of a predator and the posture of a wounded animal, he swiped at the cloth and revealed the reason for all his current misery. Maybe he wasn't up to the task like Warfang said.

It's not like he had any say in this, typical bureaucrats.

He circled it, sniffed it, amazed at its black and golden pattern. If a new Cynder hatched from it, wouldn't it only bring him more pain? He grasped it in one paw and immediately flinched from the chilliness of the shell. It wasn't supposed to be so cold, a living organism pulsed within, it required a warm environment.

His snout twitched in horror, realization that this wasn't even his child anymore. He wasn't worthy enough to raise it. After a single day, he'll only be an empty husk of the Spyro the world new with no real values in life.

It was a hard truth that drove him insane, the minutes wouldn't go by.

It was in the dead of night, that he rocked back and forth on his bed, trapped in the torture of reliving past memories, they flashed like a slideshow before him, taunting and messing with his weak conscience.

What would she think of him? He's about to let her heritage, her legacy slip out of his paws. The hatchling would surely never be told of its parents.

What if they didn't even allow him to see it?

As he boiled in his own cauldron of strong emotions, he never even noticed his claws had ripped a good portion of the wooly blanket apart, he jumped out of the sheets and took a walk to the bathroom again.

Ancestors knew how long he had been retching and mopping over the sink, as it seemed bedtime would only be riddled with more nightmares. Spyro wished he could redo everything from the start, to have lead Cynder down a different path, away from him.

The stomach-churning fact that he had reached the end of the line collapsed on him like heavy illness. His bloodshot eyes pierced through the mirror and his life flashed before them. With a crane of his neck, he emptied the contents of his stomach, without having eaten anything, in particular, all day. It was a brief relief to spill his guts out, along with a bit of blood as he bit his tongue.

It was a fatal flaw in his system, his mental capacity to feel pity for himself not enough anymore. He still saw the light every time he looked at the bottom of the sink or maybe it was just the panic gaining ground over his sanity.

Maybe he wasn't making the right choice by surrendering to his self-destruction. There was still hope for the great dragon.

Only a few minutes later, he was standing at the balcony, every proper Warfangian house had one, richly embellished with intricate carvings of swirling dragons stuck in limbo, like a correctly practiced choreography frozen for eternity. The moles had taken extra care with this art-piece, it was a visually pleasing representation of Spyro's journey, fond memorabilia that the Guardians had requested soon after his home was raised. It made him nervous during his younger years to witness the struggles carved in such a frightening manner on his wall, but as time passed, he'd just pay them no heed.

Another irrelevant glorification of his deeds that charmed him on one end and repulsed him on the other. That was common folk apparently, they needed a hero… A god, to look up too for their own inability, a mere mortal like him raised to a pedestal where they put their hopes…

And the blame.

This was his answer to all of them.

He reached towards the edge of the balcony, extending his forepaws with the egg. He stood on two legs and flared his great wings, the egg was hovering outside of the balcony's boundaries, a slip of his claws was all it would take to see the home of the unborn child plummet and meet a low end at the hard pavement.

He solemnly looked back inside, the thick raindrops limited his visibility. Nothing was holding him here, rooted in this barren land except the egg in his grasp.

He had no pictures, no allies, or cared about the riches and glory. He was a dead dragon walking in the shadow of his lost love.

"Forgive me Cynder… It's for our own good." True, more exact words had never been said.

He let go.

No one ever knows what happened during that unspeakable night in Warfang, rumor had it that the egg didn't make it and labeled Spyro as an ordinary murderer. The guards who stormed the residence turned the place upside down to arrest him, with no luck. Patrols were sent in the alleys and archers posted on the imposing walls to monitor for anyone escaping. The purple dragon had just vanished.

Other rumors had it that he perished out of grief and ditched the egg, some fortune-seekers would claim to be Spyro's offspring in the later years and were quickly ridiculed. One thing was for sure, the purple dragon didn't want to be found, he cut himself off from society.

The unmarked grave persisted through the hardships and neglect, the ugly turn of the weather made the stone wither, but it still stood steady like a pillar. It was as if whoever rested beneath didn't want to be swept away from the physical world.

A miniscule black paw dusted away the crumbling rock and patted the rough surface. It belonged to an infant like dragoness, barely of age to speak. She turned her gaze to the more massive dragon overshadowing her and fluttered her eyes.

Purple paws scooped her up in a basket formation, and she purred at the inviting comfy chest, shielding her head from the sun. The purple dragon, now older with a few years of parental experience under his scales, caressed her tiny black head, she squealed in delight.

"You said mommy would be here." She stated it as if it were obvious.

He somberly exhaled, looking around he realized how radically the city had changed, but this spot was left untouched, so many years in the wild and he never missed it.

"Mommy is always with you sweetheart, this is where she rests now. We can never disturb her." He explained in a cooing manner.

"But I want to see her!" She fussed in his grasp, squirming and pawing his cheek.

"No, it's way too early for you, that's my task." He didn't expect her to understand, but it felt righteous to show her the truth.

There was a creeping aura tingling his fins, he checked all over to make sure no one would see. This little corner was as silent as ever, nothing to worry about. Calming his daughter was the only priority.

The struggling bundle fled from the protective embrace and snatched a bouquet of flowers with her maw, loosely holding them to not tear the pretty aromatic beauties to shreds. She padded over to the gravestone and settled them in front of it, then nudged them a bit with her snout for a better perspective.

"I don't know what flowers you like, but dad told me to pick my favorites." Upon mentioning him, she heard the faint sobs behind her, a very alarming reminder that this was serious since daddy never cried.

"Dad, what's wrong? Did you stub your toe?' She tilted her head in a cute, intrigued expression.

"I really forgot… I never thought I'd move on." His eyes were puffy and red, yet he retained that imperious stance he had grown to present the last few years. The sight of his distressed child hugging his leg with equal squeaky sobs panicked him.

"What did I do?' She spat, cheeks moist from hot tears.

"Nothing sweetie, you've done nothing at all. I just can't believe that after all these years of commitment, I… I forgot what her face looked like." He steadied his breath to explain.

"Whose face?" Her curiosity and clueless naivety matched his at times.

"Mommy's," He wiped a tear from her precious snout, nothing should ever stain it and mess with its pristine state, "I realized that whenever I try to bring her back, allowing her to live on with me, and I forget what her face looked like. I see your pretty snout in its place…" His eyes welled up, as he scooped the puffy cheeks in his paws.

"Oh… Well, that means you love us both equally!" She threw her paws up in excitement.

He pondered all these lost years, in the end, it was his daughter giving them back to him. This ball of joy gave him something he didn't deserve, she was Cynder's child too. He could only pour his heart and soul into keeping her away from the poison of slander and show her to a new world that the power couple of the Realms formed all these years ago.

He leaned in and kissed the stone out of respect for the gift standing next to him, the little shadow tilted her head in confusion and pounced to kiss her dad instead. He chuckled nonchalantly and licked her cheek, the faint salty taste of tears irritated his palate and yet wasn't alerting to him anymore. Like blood, tears had been the only thing he poured for the long lost past, tears that were drained from him, sucked his vigor dry.

"You can't imagine, and Cynder loves us back tenfold. She loved you even when you were barely conceived as an idea!" He reassured his baby ball and clamped his gums around her neck, gently lifting her on his back.

"We're going already…" she looked downcast, "I wanna see how many dragons live in these tall mushrooms."

Spyro chuckled "These are city towers and the mushrooms in the swamp are prettier, don't be jealous."

They flew high upwards in the sky, Spyro made a beeline for the clouds to evade all Warfangian patrols. He had fulfilled his duty as a father, his daughter's curiosity about all these wacky unbelievable legends he would cite before bedtime was satiated.

His tears were swept and dropped vertically like raindrops when the lively wind lashed at his snout. Tightly grasped in his paws, was Cynder's redemption, staring above the shrinking city with awe.

Sometimes, he imagined himself flying so far up beyond this world, so he can see Cynder, but the bundle in his clutch prevented him from straying far away from his calling.

Nobody had seen Spyro in years, his legend was passed on down many generations. Yet, some were still unsure whether they saw a purple glimpse in the puffy white of the clouds.

"You set me free."

**Well, poor Spyro found some form of closure and is now guiding his small shadow home. I know the concept of this story has appeared many times before in this fandom, but this was my take on it. Playing around with it has been huge learning experience. **

**Until next time!**


End file.
